Still Waters

Highgate Cemetery.

Amid piles of root cracked moldering stone,
voices cry out a solitary sigh,
mouthing wild whispers of life, love and home,
as trees blacken ‘gainst the darkening sky.

Soft leafed voices wisp solitary songs,
of men, women, children long buried here.
They clamor and thirst for life that has gone,
to gasp a gulp of the life giving air.

Amid thousands of spectral sighs set free,
on the rising swell of the stiffening breeze,
what sights did these, the wandering see,
what opportunities did they fail to seize.

Blades of dappled rays, fine like Bruges lace,
cut shafts through cloud and crenulated tower,
foraging for each darkly secret place,
each glowing grove, each stamen and flower.

A transient glory this sudden blaze,
disturbs a broken Angel praying here,
a resting respite to gloomy grey,
glimmers of gold on a disdainful day. 

The more opulent tombs were fitted well,
but long before email or mobile phone,
you could buy a chain with a little bell,
helping to save the living from the loam.

The greatest fear of these shuddering dead,
was to be earthed still breathing their last breath.
The House of Usher and those books well read,
caused many a sale of those bells in the past.

The poor we assume had greater themes,
like food on the table and finding a bed.
Being buried alive if in their dreams,
was not a concern to worry their heads.

Dowsed with twilight at days melting zone,
amid thoughts of this hilly resting place.
The souls of people in this their last home.
Cares and concerns with an everyday face.